


Fragments of Devotion

by apathys_whore



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Changing Tenses, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Experimental Style, Fingering, First Time, Harm to Animals, Intersex Character, M/M, Matricide, Mpreg, Patricide, References To Pedophilia, Surprisingly vanilla sex, non-linear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-08 07:59:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apathys_whore/pseuds/apathys_whore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severus shows his son pieces of a life he is too young to remember.  As he grows, he twists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Snapshots of the Missing

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Chrissy, who begged and begged me to write this and bribed me with fudge and extra spicy chicken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favorite part. It's disjointed and the tenses are weird sometimes because that's how I like to depict thought and shades of mental illness. I read too much Scorch Atlas or something. There's still more to come.

He knows the entire place has eyes. Not just from Albus, but the building itself. So he keeps it hidden in the very earth, where the stones cannot sense its presence. He doesn't hide it with magic, because magic can be sensed out, found. It would make it obvious that he is hiding something. So its resting place is under the loose stones that can be pulled up to reveal the hole he dug, reveal the trunk he had buried like a corpse. Sometimes, when he's sure no one is looking, he takes it out. All the remnants of his past life (the one he wants to think about) are in it. All of his shame and joy. He gently removes the folded robes, black like the deepest ocean waters, black like the end of the world. The material is rough like burlap, rough like the shattered bricks of a collapsed building, rough like the fragments of bone left from their victims. Sometimes he thinks it should drip too, drip with the blood of every life they so carelessly snuffed out. He takes out the mask now, smooth like an opal but so much uglier. It's bleach bone white. Someone has taken the time to strip the flesh and wash what's under, to lovingly display their work.

"This is your heritage, Tommy," he says to his son. Tommy squirms on his lap like any two year old would, fist in his mouth and black eyes wide in the dim light. He's not sure why he's showing him these things. Maybe to prove to him(self) that his father(husband) was a great man or a horrible man. Sometimes he wonders which. Tommy's tiny fist wraps around the black of the robe, new and fragile fingers clutching at the fabric, trying to decide what it is and if it's worth his time. He does the same with the mask, this item he puts in his mouth, trying to chew on the edges. Gently he unwraps the baby's fist, pulls the mask from his delicate mouth. "No Tommy." But he's not surprised. He always suspected that Tommy would be fond of these things. He sees so much of Tom in their son, even at so young an age. He sets his garb to the side, and pulls out the only other treasure the trunk has to offer.

It's a photo album with only five pictures in it. He's not sure if Tommy should see these now when he's too young to understand, or see them when he's older and be able to grasp the gravity of them. So he'll show him now, when he doesn't have to worry about Tom's influence, doesn't have to worry about an unhealthy love of torture or bitter anger at the loss of his father. He opens the album then and takes out a photo. This first one is of their wedding, but it looks more like a funeral. He hadn't been interested in a wedding, but Tom had insisted. Tradition was important, solemn and somber were the sort of things Tom liked. In the middle of the frame they stood next to each other, not kissing, not smiling, not even touching. Tom wore black because Tom always wore black. He himself wore a deep, mossy green. All around them in a circle were Tom's followers, faces hidden in their masks. He didn't think a picture existed where they didn't have their cloaks and masks. They were too proud of their atrocities, yet too afraid to show their real faces. But he hadn't known that at the time.

The next photo was of himself, heavily pregnant, stretched out on a couch in his dressing gown, reading a book and smoking a cigarette. He used to go through a pack and a half a day. The stress of being pregnant and a murderer was… taxing. He could still taste the must on his tongue sometimes, still itched to hold something to his lips. Tom had made him quit, for Tommy's sake. He couldn't begrudge him that. He hadn't taken up the habit again after Tom was gone, though working at a boarding school probably had something to do with it as well.

This photo was of him holding Tommy right after he was born. It had been a surprisingly easy birth, all things considered. Which was lucky because it as if they could go to a hospital, being wanted criminals and all. Tom had stood with him the entire time, silent but encouraging simply by being there. It hadn't been proper for fathers to watch the birth at that time, but no one would dare question Tom about his methods. For all of his flaws, he was a loving man, if in his own way.

The photo after was of all of them. He was holding a squirming, six month old Tommy with a smiling face. Tom had his arm around his waist, and in the tiny moving picture he would lean over to smile and have a closer look at their son. He himself had taken to parenthood much easier than he had thought. He had patients where it counted, and would gently guide his infant son. If anything, he was the more stern of the two parents. Tom was much more indulgent in Tommy's whims. When he was a year old he would set the boy on his lap and read him texts of dark arts, grimoires, and fairy tales. "Indoctrinate them early. I must teach my boy proper values, my dear," he had said with his sweetest voice. Tom knew he thought Tommy was much too young for some of it. Surely it was good to get a head start on education (no son of his would be a simpleton), but Tom always seemed to take things just a step too far. "This is the spell that turns someone inside out," he said, pointing to an illustration of bones and organs flying out of a man's mouth while his skin and hair went sucking in. Tommy regarded it with graphite eyes, his mother's own, with a strange intensity. Tom smiled when little Tommy grabbed for the book with his chubby baby fingers.

The last picture he had of them was one he felt he ought to burn, but just couldn't bring himself to do it. He had so few mementos from their brief time together so he clung to every one, even the ones that showed the darker side of his life. They were in the hall Tom used to gather his followers, sitting in roughly hewn wooden thrones. Tom's was slightly taller; he wanted them all to know he was the leader of their organization. He was their king, their god. But his spouse was still nothing to scoff at, still demanded their begrudging allegiance. Severus had enjoyed watching them bow before him. For the first time he had power, he had respect, he had a true family. In the little picture they sat in their respective thrones, faces bare and proud before the ring of their masked, faith(less)full followers. Tommy was on his father's lap in this one, just one year old. Tom had been proudly showing his son, his heir, to his apostles. Tommy was a lovely baby. He would wear his father's handsome face someday, but with his mother's eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a preliminary run before I give it to Chrissy. I have no idea what I'm doing because this isn't my fandom but I've sort of grown attached to it now. You might have seen me lurking about and reviewing. Also I really like that spicy chicken so I was like wtf why not. Chrissy wanted this ship and for it to have mpreg & family feels because she's into that kind of thing. So I wrote this because I have no shame. But I have my pride and refuse to make anything fluffy. Tell me if anything is all fucked up because Idk wtf I am doing, as previously stated. I have reams of this stuff and it's all... mentally ill...? And it gets progressively more violent. So tell me if you like it and give me advise. Or tell me it sucks so I can try again. Thank you and sorry. :)


	2. Purgatory

Once upon a time was how fairy tales began.  Those inexplicable tales intended to impart a lesson to children; lessons like don’t wonder into the forest alone.  Don’t alienate your friends.  Don’t fall in love with strange men.  All of these were lessons his parents should have taught him, yet he only managed to glean them in hindsight.  Now here he was at only twenty two, widowed with a child and facing the looming threat of war.  In a way he supposed he did have a story book life.  It was a rather gloomy tale, rife with desolation, bad choices, and depression; it showed no sign of improving any time soon.

Somehow at the end, or intermission, of all the chaos, betrayal, deceit, and espionage, Severus found himself as a Professor and head of house. He had spent some of the less miserable years of his life in this dungeon, so if one were to try and grasp at straws, you could say that it was rather fitting that only after three years away he was back again, bringing with him a son and little else.  “Mu!”  Tommy said, reaching out his little arms for him.  Severus bent down to lift the toddler, brushing back a stray lock of black hair from his eyes.   He wasn’t sure if he should try to get Tommy to switch the rudimentary Mum to Dad. 

In the wizarding world certain genetic abnormalities weren’t as uncommon as they were in the muggle world.  So, when he was born with a penis that was for urinating and not much else, as well as a completely female reproductive system (the opening for which was located where the testicles of a normal man would be), it gave his bastard father another reason to hate him and his freak mother.  “Couldn’t even give me a proper son,” he’d mutter drunkenly at him.  He still had a masculine name, however.  It wouldn’t do to have a child that looked male wondering around with a name like Mary.  It might have passed in the wizarding world but in the normal world you couldn’t go around proclaiming how much of a disgusting freak you were.  So he was raised like a boy, quietly ashamed of his deformity.  He still felt a bit awkward about it now, which was why he was considering changing his son’s “mu” to “da”.  Now that Tom was gone, at least for the moment, there was no need for it to get around that he was more female than male.  However it would be much harder to explain where the other parent was.

 As the mother Tommy could be explained as the progeny of an anonymous, ill advised one night stand but the problem with that was one ran the risk of being branded a harlot.  He could say it was non-consensual, but children stemming from such an unfortunate union tended to be viewed with a stigma that he would rather avoid.  If word got around of his son he supposed he could say the father died in the war and that he didn’t wish to speak of it.  For the moment anyway, it was the truth.  He just wasn’t sure what to tell Tommy.  He felt he had a right to know who his father was, but explaining that he had been an up and coming dictator with murderous intentions for the vast majority of the world’s population was something that could be rather hard to swallow for a child.  Severus didn’t want Tommy to hate his father.  Tom loved their son and was a wonderful parent, but his ideals and actions would have gotten them killed sooner rather than later.  Up until Tommy had been born, he had been perfectly fine ignoring the repercussions of Tom’s actions.  The problem with Severus’ love was that it tended to be blind, deaf, and dumb.  Perhaps it had been his youth, or naive and twisted ignorant idealism, but he was certain he would die with Tom when it all came crashing down and he had been perfectly fine with that.  Then he had a baby with him.  It was supposed to be difficult for someone with his… condition to conceive.  Normally it required the aid of strong and complicated potions.  But Severus always had to go above and beyond the call of duty, even if it was a mistake.

Tom had been thrilled.  Severus, less so.  Neither one of them had any idea how to be parents, so how the hell were they supposed to raise a child of their own without severely fucking the poor thing up?  Not to mention that neither one of them had a lot of free time.  Tom was busy trying to get an empire off the ground and Severus was constantly making potions and doing research.  But, as time went on parental instinct took over and he grew to love his unborn child.  Devotion to Tom took a back seat to making sure his son lived.  So, for the first time in his life, he did the right thing.  Severus sold out the only person who had ever well and truly loved him in exchanged for clemency to raise the madman’s son


	3. Inheritance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still working away. This story was never meant to be linear. Because that's no fum.

He hated his mother, but not enough to see her suffer. A quick spell while she slept and she never again woke to see the light of day. It was a mercy killing really.

Then it was time to deal with his father. He’d spent years of his life going over this in his head. What he would say, what he would do, how he would do it. Sometimes he fancied he would strangle him, pressing his thumbs into his windpipe as he watched his eyes go bloodshot and face go blue, the entire time having to watch his own son kill him. Other times he thought stabbing would be best. How many times could he push the knife in? How many organs could he hit? How much blood could he splatter on the walls, how high would it go? Sometimes he thinks it would be appropriate if he beat him to death. His own arms weren’t nearly strong enough on their own. His father had always been so much bigger, so much stronger. He’d have to find a pipe. It was easy to find the scraps and skeletons of houses here in Spinner‘s End where it was nothing but crumbling desolation. He’d drag it back with him and swing until his father’s skull was mush and his brains poured out his ears. Other times he imagines drowning him in the toilette. The disgusting man deserved a disgusting place to die. He’d pull his head out just before he stopped breathing for good just to listen to him beg for forgiveness, only to push him back under.

When it happens it isn’t nearly as magnificent as he thought it would be. Right after killing his mother in her bed he goes downstairs and sees his father in the kitchen, sees the knife sitting on the counter. He knew how he was going to kill him then. Stabbing it would be. While the man’s back is turned, he rams the large kitchen knife into him. It slid in easily. He must have gotten somewhere between the ribs, punctured a lung. After that he can’t stop. Once the body falls to the floor, he jumps on top of it and continues the assault. His mind is full of adrenalin and years of impotent rage as he plunges the knife in again and again. Sometimes it slides in cleanly, other times it hits solid bone and rebounds, jarring his wrist painfully. But he can’t stop. He’s sobbing uncontrollably, screaming I hate you I hate you I hate you over and over again. When he can finally bring himself to stop, there’s a pool of blood crawling out around them, and his father’s dead body is his life raft. His everything is streaked with blood and his tears leave a sticky, semi-clean path down his face. His nose is running profusely and his arms are tired and his hand aches from holding the knife so tight. This isn’t the glorious retribution he had dreamed of for so long. This isn’t poetic or a display of power and superiority. This was a scared child lashing out at a long time abuser. There isn’t much to do about it now though. His parent’s are dead and he’ll never have to worry about them again. Really, his only regret is that he didn’t savor his father’s demise or draw it out. He would have liked to have watching his face when he died. 

It didn’t matter though. He could heal him postmortem, put the bastard next to his mother in bed, make it look like a gas leak. And that’s exactly what he does. The muggle authorities have no inkling of magic and his mother has no relatives that would bother to check on her. He has connections now, other places he can go. Months later, he is surprised to find out that the house is left to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now he has to pay taxes on it though. The hell is he gonna do that? Yaaay killing your parents. I always figured that was how he got the place. It's not like they retired to Boca Raton and just left him the house. If I had parents that shitty I'd kill them too. And I mean come on, he joined the Death Eaters, he had to have proved that he was into killing people for a half blood to get in. Plus that's something that he and Tom can bond over. "Remember how we both killed our parents, honey? Oh we have so much in common! Let's go light innocent people on fire!" That's why Lily doesn't love you, you little sociopath.


	4. Harvest of Mutilation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whoever gave me the 4th kudos gets a rainbow cupcake and a handjob because you've earned everyone a bonus level. Not long but contains chopping up dead people so there's that. Not sure how to tag that though... Chapter best paired with Oomph!'s Burn Your Eyes.

He remembers Tom’s words, sweet honey laced with a most deadly poison. “Deserve is a human concept, my dear. Just like mercy. We will strike with cold efficiency and take what we want because we know what’s best. They’re sheep with an incompetent shepherd, and like a sickly herd, they must be culled.” 

He remembers the bodies. Sometimes they were still slightly warm but very stiff, almost impossible to move. Sometimes they were cold and pliant, waggling heads and bloated necks cracking against the frames of doors, leaving gobs of coagulated blood and sticky hair dried to the wood. Sometimes he had to ask for specific features, for their death to be on certain dates to increase the potency for his ingredient harvesting. Many a dark brew required lymph nodes, the joints from the wrist, the veins from the leg. He enjoys his work, knife sliding through flesh easily, hands pulling out organs and veins, bones and muscle. He was suited for this, it was his calling. It didn’t matter that the thing on the slab once had a life, had a name, maybe even a family and happiness. He was going to change the world. He was going to clean it so that no one would have to suffer like they had, like him and Tom. Abused by their families, tormented in school, abandoned to an uncaring world. Tom cared, and Tom was going to cleanse this world by fire and by blood. The way it deserved. They tell him these people are unworthy, that they have committed atrocities against their cause, against their people. Who is he to question, to ask for proof? Deep down, he knows that they would have to answer should he inquire, he does out rank them. He supposes he could have asked, if he really cared. But everyone was petty, cruel, and vindictive, so they deserved it. One way or another they deserved it. Unless what Tom said about deserving something was true, in which case it didn’t really matter anyway, did it? His cigarette was burning low. He snubbed it out on the open eye of the body. He didn’t need these eyes, wrong color. He watched as it burned its way through the sclera, eating through the cold and slimy mucous, finally burning itself out on the lens, leaving a scorch mark. Maybe Tom would let him try this on a living one at some point. Maybe it could be James.

 

“Sometimes, I think you’re made of spiders, my love.” Tom says. “Everything about you reminds me of them. It’s as if someone pulled the legs from a harvestman and affixed them to your eyes. They’ve taken the legs of a huntsman and glued them to your hands. Your hair is like spiders’ webs. Does it catch the morning dew in summer? Your eyes are black like theirs. Black and waiting and hungry. Always watching.” Tom tucks his cobweb hair behind his ear and together they sleep, safe, warm, and in love. He dreams that inside his body, spiders are spinning webs in his veins, that they’re crawling behind his eyes. And they are dreams of utmost sweetness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will probably get moved around and put into an actual chapter at a later date. I like it and it can stand on its own so I figured I'd indulge myself and post it. Again, it's non-linear. But there will be central points in the story you can kind of backtrack and... forward track to events...


	5. Choir Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight's central theme is pedophilia. Brought to you by Warren Jeffs. Shout out to Silver Point Despair over at Fanfiction who's input is invaluable and helped this make as much sense as it possibly can without killing my fun. Quirrell's point of view with **Voldemort's thoughts in bold.**

There are so many lovely children, so sweet, so innocent. The ones who have never seen magic at all are **filthy mud bloods, nothing but vultures circling a swiftly dying body. Drown eviscerate burn poison. No punishment too terrible** the sweetest of all. They've been told tales of magic by unbelieving adults, assured that it can only exist is books, in fantasy designed to simply pass the time. I can only imagine what it must be like for them to live here, in a place so magical **it should be sacred, and yet here they are, befouling the place. Worms below the flesh, eating out the heart.**

My thoughts haven't been my own these days, but it isn't as if I don't know why. I've let The Dark Lord into me. It's a bit hard to process two sets of thoughts at the same time, to send sensory information to two different minds simultaneously. He can see through my eyes **see the way you look at them, pervert** , hear through my ears **lies! Lies and heresy! Take your fork, gouge out his throat!** All of my senses are linked to him now. I'm but a tool, a vessel **for a reward you can have as many of the rats as you like they hardly count as real children** in exchange for countless treasures. Such beautiful and precious things. So tempting, so many, so close **Look but never touch. You've been given a task, pervert.** His insults keep me grounded. After all, it is so _hard_ to be around them, have their supple young bodies brush against mine in the corridors and not be able to do anything about it.

We're in the Great Hall for dinner and it's not only the food that is a feast. I have my favorite dishes, like anyone. Little Samantha Erikson from Hufflepuff, with her bouncing brown curls and shining hazel eyes. I could stare into them for hours, trying to count and name the colors. The youngest Weasley boy is a favorite as well, with his glossy red hair and inviting smile. I wonder if the sweet freckles on his face span the entire length of his body. **A prolific nest of blood traitors. You may have them all.** Though Percy is getting a bit old for my taste. **Take him anyway. His screams would be a beauteous concert.** But I don't wish to hurt them. That's what no one understands! I _love_ them. I want them to feel safe and happy. I want them to _enjoy_ my love. The gasping laughter in the back of my head that sounds more like choking.  It's there every time I have a thought like that. **Oh sick abhorrent little man! No one could ever love you!** His taunts would have gone on, I am sure, if the Headmaster had not asked the Potions Master a question. I didn't hear the query, only the name Severus. Inside my head it's like a dicta-quill is broken, writing the name over and over and over, incessantly scratching it into my mind until it’s all that I can hear.

 **Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus he was my Lolita, so sinfully young it should have disgusted me. Though I could not bring myself to feel it. But it was not his youth that I desired. We share a venom, our connection is based on our hurts, the experience of our fathers' blood righteously spilled. Oh, bitter child, they'd already groomed* you for me. Washed you filthy in blood and distilled you with their fists, their slights. Handed you to me like a sacrifice. Shall I split you open and read the auspices from your intestines? But what a waste that would be. You have talent within your bloodstained hands. Oh ugly Aphrodite, cut another slice of human flesh for me! Or shall we do it together, like a muggle wedding cake? Wipe the blood on each other's lips with reverence and devotion? You'll never grow too old for me, my Severus. Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus**.

My eyes don't see the Hall anymore, or all the pretty children. My vision is filled with black eyes and black hair bent over a bloated corpse, cutting off the fingers with pruning shears. With each sickening snap of bone I'm a little closer to vomiting. Thin, pale lips sip from a glass of wine so dark I fear it might be blood. White, spindly legs open to reveal a wonderful surprise. His face contorted in ecstasy in dim light. Strong digits slip a snake ring on a boney finger. The flood of memories stops abruptly, fizzling out like a burning picture. **BLASPHOMER!** It's so loud it makes my teeth rattle. The force of rage behind it makes me fear I may have said it out aloud. As surreptitiously as I can I look around me to see if I had indeed made a scene.  But no one is staring at me. All is normal on the outside. For now we are safe. **How dare he speak his name! Unworthy blasphemer! Punish him punish him punish him! Rip out his tongue bite it out if you must! He dare speak his name!**

It takes everything in my power to keep from attacking the Headmaster, from doing as he commands. I know by now to never speak his given name, to never think it either. I made that mistake once. He made me burn my hands over a candle, one small section at a time, the tiny flame slowly eating into my flesh until all the skin was blistered and oozing. I haven't made that mistake again. The punishment for thinking about his son, however, is slightly more severe. I'm missing two toes and four teeth. Mutilation like that was a constant reminder to never think about him in an… inappropriate manner. It _was_ very hard at first, because he is such a lovely child. I remember the first time we saw him.

It was at the welcome feast but he was already in his second year, so dashing in his green and silver tie. **Of course he's in** **Slytherin** **my boy my Tommy. There was never any doubt about it with his blood so red and true inside his little veins. He looks like me at that age such a good boy so proud of him. Oh how he would laugh when they were punished!** I could feel inside of me how he wanted to go and embrace his son, that beautiful, charming little devil. His glossy hair like polished hematite, almost luminous in the soft flicker of the candles. **I was so worried he'd turn out _wrong_ because of the _company_ he is forced to keep. Look at him smile same as his mother. ** There had been a sharp crack and our attention was drawn to a freshly sorted Gryffindor who had tripped, knocking his head against the sharp corner of one of the tables. We looked back at Tommy, his sweet little lips curled in what looked more like a smirk, showing just a hint of gleaming teeth. I'd yet to see the professor smile in person, but I'd seen memories of that smirk before. I had to admit, it was rather familiar on that cherubic little face. **Yes his mother's smile and spider eyes and spider hands does he have his spider venom too? I should hope so. Not enough to kill no not yet, just enough to wound and subdue. He'll have mine when he's grown though. Snake venom kills. My little snake, my little boy. I swore I'd never abandon you and here I am. Do you think he has his voice? His mother's siren voice? Oh speak again bright angle!** The professor's voice is indeed something to marvel over, I thought. It's commanding; it demands your attention with its sonorous rumble like distant thunder.

It was rather easy to draw the master's attention to another subject and I had inadvertently switched his thoughts to that of his… wife. I was never sure what to call him but I was never corrected for the term. **I want to touch him feel his skin he sits so far away it's been so long since I've had hands to feel. Do you remember how I'd run mine through your hair? So fine so smooth so filthy. I didn't mind. It kept the others away. Surely if they knew they would also want to touch. How many hands would I have to cut off? We could live in a palace made of them. You and me and Tommy.** His thoughts, _our_ thoughts, were often hard to follow. I think it's because my brain not only has to direct information to two places, but also has to process two sets of thoughts as well as two sets of feelings and two sets of memories. It also explains my stutter. I have to work at making sure the words that come out of my mouth are my own. But that's okay. I can manage.

It was a week before we were able to be alone with Tommy. **Severus does not trust you. So cunning, so astute. He'd have our head if he saw you pawing at Tommy the very first day. He mustn't know, too close to the heretic. But I must speak to my son.** I was already missing a toe and a tooth by then. I'm allowed to say his name though.  The master insists he's going to change it to something more appropriate after all this hassle has been dealt with. I had settled into a routine by then. Wake up, bathe **can't wash the thoughts from your dirty mind pervert** , go to breakfast **the Potter boy is there can't wait to ring his neck finish the job his mud blood mother had to complicate** then begin class.  Some days my new master would focus on his family, others he would expound on his hatred for Harry. Shame he had to die. He was a sweet boy, if a little introverted. Ron was much more open, all free smiles and exuberant laughter **staring at the filth again really you have no shame _._**

It was by luck alone that Tommy was in the last class of the day. He sat in the back, radiating frigid disdain for everyone around him, his baby pink lips cast into a permanent frown. From what I could tell he was a complete loner, scowling harshly if addressed by his peers **he knows they are beneath him that is good**. It made me a little sad honestly. Children were social creatures; they should enjoy each other’s company in their fleeting time of beautiful innocence. They also had a tendency to talk, so I needed a legitimate reason to have him alone. It was simple enough to charm a bookshelf to collapse just as class was about to end. With a spectacular crash, books tumbled over the slightly dirty flagstone.

"Oh d-dear. It seems w-we have a bit of a mess. T-T-Tommy, why don't you s-s-stay and help me clean it up?" He made the most abysmal face I'd ever seen on a child. For a moment I was sure he'd hex me. But soon his expression settled back to his frigid mask once again **he learned that from his mother always so distant**. "If you wish, Professor." His tone was calm and dispassionate **yes he’ll have his voice as well** as if my entire existence was nothing more than a mild irritation he had the misfortune of dealing with.  He sat stone still in his seat, black eyes following the movement of the children like a predator carefully selecting its prey.  Once they had all filed out and were safe distance away he stood abruptly and marched straight up to me with a stride that so resembled Snape it rather caught me off guard.

"What do you _really_ want, Professor? The other students might be taken in by cheap tricks, but I am _not,_ " he said sternly.  I was dumbstruck. Children tended to be shy when alone with authority figures that they weren't familiar with. Yet here he was, calling my bluff **marvelous marvelous he sees through lies he'll know the truth ask him ask him if he knows.**

"Tommy, do you k-k-know your f-father?" I stammered out.  Immediately his expression darkened from severely annoyed to absolutely murderous. Never before had I seen such a face on one so young and that was the first time it truly dawned on me that I was talking to the dark lord's son and not simply a moody child.

"I know it's not you, if that's what you're i-i-implying," he taunted viciously.  I curled in on myself and took a step backwards as I was distinctly aware that he was gripping his wand in his left hand then. **Is he left handed must be how interesting** For a moment I was terrified of him. In that moment this boy no more than twelve looked completely ready to kill me, entirely assured that there would be no consequence to his actions.

Suddenly, before I could control it, the master's words were flying out of my mouth.  "No no, you misunderstand, Tommy. His identity, do you know his identity?" There's a desperation seeping through the end of the sentence that I'm sure the boy picked up on, astute as he is. The master longed for his son to recognize him as his father, to know that Tommy was loved. It's a beautiful thing really, the love between child and parent.

"What's it to you?" he replied, eyeing us suspiciously. All of us knew we couldn't just come out and say it; you never knew who could be listening.  The three of us stood for a moment, deciding on how best to dance around the subject while still making the point clear.

"You're n-named after him. His o-o-original name. D-do you know his o-other name?"  I managed to force out despite the intensity of the raw hate he was directing at me.

His eyes narrowed in distrustful rage, wand drawn and pointing right at me. "Do _you_ know his other name? If so, what are you going to do about it? I highly doubt my mother or the Headmaster would take kindly to you harassing a student, you know. You might find yourself… _t-t-t-terminated_ for such indecent conduct," he spat viciously.

"No! N-no, I'm a-a friend! To y-your father! You c-could say we're close."  I said, doing my best to placate him.  His wand lowered just a scant few inches and his defensive posture eased a bit. **Show him**. "I can prove it to you! I c-can! But it won't be pretty."

"Fine. Show me here, right now." I could feel his pride in Tommy's caution **good good yes he knows he knows who I am it was not hidden from you I knew you wouldn't hide it from him, Severus.**

I stood in front of the door, thinking he would perhaps bolt the second our secret was revealed. I faced the wall with my back turned to him **never turn your back to someone armed he doesn't trust you he might kill you** and removed my turban. I expected a scream, a gasp at least, perhaps a clatter as he dropped his wand. There was dead silence. My vision was shifted to the other face as I surrendered complete control, and I could see Tommy grinning openly and honestly. For a shining moment I could see that sweet purity he seemed to lack.

"That's enough, servant. It's easier for me to speak through your mouth." His voice was scales on sandpaper, the last gasp of a dying torture victim. It was true though. There was always an uncomfortable tugging sensation whenever his slit mouth moved. I fixed my turban and turned to face the boy. He was still grinning, happiness radiating from him like sunshine in summer.

"I knew you'd be back," he said softly and reverently. "I knew you wouldn't just leave us here to rot.  I could feel it in my very blood."  His joy is beautiful and honest. His mouth was smiling so wide I could count his quartz glimmer teeth. Mid afternoon sunlight was pouring in through the windows and his hair shimmered and his eyes glistened and this boy is an angel **you'll be losing another tooth tonight, pervert** but that's okay because so few have ever seen such a thing of beauty. He was striding towards us then, confident and smooth. I fell to my knees in reverence and worship and this angel embraced me. I knew it was his father that his arms wrapped around but I reveled in his warmth, his suppleness. I buried my face in his feather soft hair and inhaled. He smelled of ozone and fresh rain, with just the barest hint of formaldehyde **spending time with his mother.** Yes, this boy is worth any punishment. He pulled back slightly, so we could see his face. He trained his black eyes on mine and through his smile says, "Please, Father! Please let me help you kill them! They took you from me! It is my right!" I could feel the passion in his words, the conviction.  If I have a soul left, at that beautiful moment it was weeping. His lovely face was contorted into rage again and I could feel my heart breaking. Such a beautiful boy should never have those thoughts. No child should. How could such perfection be tainted by thoughts of violence? And my master was laughing through my mouth, stroking his cheek and tucking black hair behind the delicate curve of his sweet little ear.  It was torture to have to touch such wonderful flesh without feeling more.

"In good time, my son, in good time. You shall have all the blood you could ever want under my reign. But patience is a virtue," he replied with a chuckle.

Tommy clutched my shoulders, expression one of desperation. "I've waited ten years! Please, let me do it, _please_ let me kill Potter!" I'd never before seen such longing and loathing mixed together in one human, and I pray I never will again.

"No!" The answer was abrupt and left no room for argument. "I must be the one to do it!"

"I can kill him right now! No one will expect it! It will be so easy! Please, you have no idea how I've dreamed of killing him!" he pleaded with us frantically.

The master sighed through my mouth. It's exasperated but also affectionate. "I am glad you are so devoted. I was worried that the heretic would have warped you."

"His sentiment sickens me," he spits in disgust. Tommy needed no explanations as to who his father was referring to. They both see Albus as a threat and a menace to the proper way of life.

"As well it should. But it isn't that simple. It must be me that kills Potter. There is a prophesy. Besides, I have a use for the boy yet. He is needed for my full resurrection."

Tommy looked absolutely defeated at his father's words. "I hate him. I hate _all_ of them. I hate all of them so much it's practically the only thing I can think about." It was a confession that slipped through his lips. A deep secret that he had been forced to hide from everyone. I know how deeply such secrets can wound you, leave you bleeding and desperate for someone you could grab onto, someone to save you. He looked to his father for that outlet, for that salvation.

"Oh my poor little Tommy. They're not even worthy of your hate."  Our hands smoothed over his shoulders, grasped his hands. "You get that from your mother you know. So much hatred wrapped up inside one body can be a powerful thing. You will learn to harness it, to use it as your greatest weapon. Hate can accomplish amazing things." I wish he wouldn't him tell things like that. I wish he would tell him to be sweet and pure forever, but I had my doubts that this child ever possessed any such attributes. " _You_ will accomplish amazing things, my son," he finished, giving the boy's hands a reassuring squeeze.

"I want the world to tremble beneath my feet. I want them all to feel the hatred that I feel, I want them to feel nothing else. I want them to rip each other apart, but I want to be the one who made them do it." The look of lust on his face and the desperate longing in his voice was terrifying.  Lust for death, longing for destruction.  As I watched this angel through eyes that were once my own, it came to me that truly this was the greatest tragedy of our age.  Tommy was so young, so beautiful, and yet he was so angry, so twisted. Was there anything that could be done to save this poor boy, save him from this… this _fury_ that seems to eat him so?

The master used my unworthy hands to cup his perfect face.  "I can give you those things, my son. But you must wait."

The pair settled on the tables then, forgoing the chairs in lieu of the tables themselves. They sat side by side, father and son. It was odd seeing the master engaging in such a casual, almost juvenile act.  Together they looked out the windows, eyes and minds trained on the distant horizon.

"How long will it be before you kill Potter?" his tone was light and conversational, almost indifferent as he inquired after the death of another boy.  It was as if he was asking after the time.

"It should be by the end of the school term. Though I suppose it depends on how intelligent he is." He draped our arm around the boy's shoulders then, the gesture loving and familiar.

"If his potions work is any indication of his intelligence then you probably won't have to wait longer than that.  Mother is always complaining about him." Tommy moved closer, resting his head against us.

"How _is_ your dear mother anyway?" It was odd how easily they could switched back and forth from violence to endearment.

"He is fine, thought I suspect that he is lonely without you. When he doesn't know I'm watching, he wears his ring and looks at the pictures."

Our expression was wistful then. "Yes, I believe Regulus took most of them. I should have known he'd be useless with how sentimental he was. Unfortunate really, that the Black name should have to die."

"I can't say I know much about that. Mother tells me very little. I think he worries someone would hear or I might be too brazen with the knowledge," he says, disappointment evident in his voice.  It was easy to tell that he's rather put out at his lack of awareness on the subject.

"You must understand, Tommy. He only wishes to keep you safe. With the heretic and his weapons so close he cannot risk any leak of information about your true lineage. Your mother had an abysmal childhood because of his own bloodline. Both of us did."  Our hand idly rubbed Tommy’s shoulder in a comforting gesture. "It's the mark of a good mother to try and keep their child safe from anything that might harm them. He _was_ always squeamish about the oddest things though. I believe it's because he thinks they might scare you. He would always throw such a snit when I would bring you with me to dole out punishment." Our lips are turned up in a smile and for a brief moment I was treated to the sight of a baby with wispy black hair and a wide grin. There were screams in the background but the vision is only focused on his laughing son. "You loved it though. You were such a happy child. It pains me to see you so miserable."

Tommy buried his face into the fabric of our robe. "I don't have to be now though. You're here and soon we can punish them all together. I've always wanted to strangle someone. It seems so personal. They know exactly who is killing them," he said thoughtfully.  "What's it like, to kill someone? I know you and Mother both have killed."  He peaked up at me, dark eyes half lidded in serene contentment and framed by heavy lashes **his mother's spider eyes**.  If he had been any other child, it would have been a memory that I cherished forever.  But despite his beauty, this youth is a monster. I've never seen a child that I wasn't attracted to in some way, but now Tommy is that exception. He takes no joy in simplicity like other children; there is no innocence, no wonder in his expressions. The only thing he cares about is violence, his only joy is death. Regardless of how ethereal his looks, how well spoken, how graceful he is, I can never again find this child of destruction appealing.

The master was silent for a long moment after his son’s question. It's much easier for him to think when I've given him complete control of our shared body. It still takes awhile to answer, to draw from all the memories of the many he has killed and form a response. And even then he felt it hard to describe the pleasure it gave him. "It's wonderful. It's like everything wrong that's happened to you doesn't matter. Like you're the only thing in existence that's important and you have all the power in the world. Everything slows down and for a shining moment everything makes sense." He felt it was a vague description that only scratched the surface of the pleasure it gave him.

"I want to kill someone."  Tommy stated.

"You will. Soon, I should think. That is, if everything goes according to plan."

"Perhaps you should kill someone now, help your focus." There was a sly, teasing grin on his face and in his tone. I felt my master’s pride swell up again.

He laughed, strong and honest. "I could not be more pleased with you, Tommy. You're exactly as I had hoped you would be."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * grooming is the process in which a pedo insinuates themselves with a child. The way someone explained it to me is that in some cases it's almost like Pavlovian training to get the child to act the way you want and accept you before you... do bad things. In this case he's referring to the fact that Severus was pretty young for his tastes but was already trained to be bitter and vicious and all the things he likes. I also used groomed in sort of a literal sense so it's a double entendre. The "distilled you with their fists" is a reference to a KMFDM song called Spit Sperm. "Distilled within your discipline," was the line I tweaked. And Lolita just because it sort of fit the central theme of loving underage children that I was using. And because I'm sure Tom had plenty of time to read the works of Nabokov.
> 
> That's a good place to stop. Sorry about all the pedophilia. I want this to have icky feelings and an easy way to do that is to invite a pedo to the party. Also Ron doesn't get enough fandom love so my way of giving him some is to be part of a pedophile's wank bank. We'll come back to Quirrell again pretty soon but don't worry, he never gets to molest any babies.


	6. Corrosive Material

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentines Day! Bring your special someone the heart of their worst enemy to show how much you care! But roll it in pink glitter first. Because what's the point of Valentines Day if you don't cover everything in pink glitter? It looks so pretty!

The boy came highly recommended despite his rather dubious parentage.  A disgraced mother and an abusive muggle father hardly make for a pedigree, but Tom knew that sometimes there was something to be had for half-bloods.  As long as they had their wits about them, which this lad seemed to.  When he was at initiation, he had seen his ambition, had rooted around in his head to look at his past.  He had smiled indulgently when he found the memory of the boy stabbing his father to death.  It seemed they had rather a lot in common.

He wasn’t much to look at, that was certainly true.  With his baggy clothes, poor hygiene, and generally unpleasant visage, he could indeed turn heads, but not in a good way.  But for some reason, he felt drawn to the poor thing.  It was probably do to the similarity of their childhoods, decades apart as they were.  But regardless of any such predilection, he needed to make sure the boy was competent in his duties.  They didn’t require many potions, but the ones that they did need tended to be complicated.  As such, he was rather dubious of letting one so young and inexperienced be solely responsible for their creation.  That was how he found himself sitting in on Severus’ work.  They’d given the boy the lab he’d needed, outfitted with tables, cupboards, caldrons of all sizes and materials, and an array of glistening surgical instruments.  “Wands and spells are all well and good, but some things are best done by hand,” the boy had said.

When Tom entered the room, Severus had looked up from his work with a startled expression, eyes wide and black like the pit of a freshly dug grave.  Upon seeing who it was, the boy bowed his head in respect, a quick, “my Lord,” falling from his nearly colorless lips.  Tom merely gestured for him to continue and conjured a chair to observe from. 

If there was an art to dissection, to the way flesh yields to the cold steel of a scalpel, then Severus was a master of the craft.  Students young and old should flock to him in wonder to observe how he worked, cold and smooth but with barely hidden passion.  He then knew with certainty that he mustn’t worry about the boy’s abilities.  Any potion needed was in Severus’ deft hands.  Tom watched as he expertly slit open the calf of a dead man, watched as thick and stagnant blood oozed to the surface like eons old tar through the cracks of the Earth’s surface.  He watched as the flesh was stripped away by elegant hands.  When there was nothing left but bone, a quick, wordless tap of the wand at the knee and then the ankle fully separated the bones from their sockets with a sickening crack.  Another wand tap and a muttered “pulvero,” had the whole thing, marrow and all, turned to a slightly blood damp dust. He watched as Severus bottled half of it, screwed the lid on the jar.  The blank label now read tibia/fibula (human) whole, in spiky cursive, the letters drawn just a bit too tall, slanted to the right just a too much.  The other half he added, bit by bit, to a gently boiling caldron.  It must have been the final ingredient because after he thoroughly integrated it by way of stirring, he ladled it out into another jar.  The contents were a clear, pastel pink.  It was a surprisingly sweet color for containing human bones.  It’s reminiscent of valentines and bubble gum, of innocent feminine youth.  Tom smiled to himself.  It would not do to be taken in by the innocuous color of the potion.  He was sure it was far more diabolical than its appearance let on.

“Tell me, what purpose does this creation serve?” he asked conversationally.  Severus gave a start and quickly turned his neck so that he was facing his master.  It appeared that he had forgotten that the other man was in the room with him.  Tom found it amusing.

“Should even a few drops be ingested, the imbiber’s face will melt off.”  He responded dispassionately.  “Though I must admit, I did not anticipate the color.”  His tone was rather annoyed as he observed the freshly bottled concoction with critical eyes.  Tom had smiled more today than he had in a very long time.  He found he’d even let Severus’ impudence slide.  For now.

“Surely the recipe made note of what color it should be?”

“It’s something of my own creation.”  He found himself momentarily taken aback by his proclamation, though he hid it behind his normal mask of apathy.

“Impressive.  If it works.”  There was an edge of disbelief to his voice, an unspoken dare for Severus’ to prove his claim.  It would indeed be impressive, if a bit ostentatious.  But that had never stopped him before.  It was fun to send a clear message.  To let the opposition know to watch their backs because you were always out there.  After all, what was the point of leaving the mark above the burned houses of their opponents if not to clearly demonstrate the fate of those who stood against them? 

The boy gave a knowing smile at his challenge and opened one of the many cabinets that lined the room.  He removed a cage inside which was a single white rabbit.  He watched as Severus tucked it into the crook of his arm and squeezed its mouth open as it struggled against him.  A few drops of liquid and almost instantly the thing let out an ungodly, almost porcine shriek as fur and blood and flesh dripped onto his hand then to the floor.  Finally, in a misplaced show of mercy, he snapped its neck.  Tom watched the young man in front of him, hands dripping with carrion and still holding the carcass with a decidedly smug look on his face.  He couldn’t help from smiling himself.  Yes, this young man was not without his merits.

“Well done, Severus,” he said, giving him a glib round of applause.

“Thank you,” he replied, still looking as smug as can be.  Tom playfully raised an eyebrow.  Severus quickly added a, “my lord,” to the end of his statement.  Tom had a feeling that this young half blood would go far in his ranks.

Weeks later, he found himself dropping in on him, making requests for complicated potions he had no use for just to watch him work. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww, they're so romantic! You get this early because A) it's Valentines Day and, despite being a single misanthrope, I still like it. And B) I bothered to do my English homework for the first time this semester.


	7. Judas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to the show At Midnight (it won't let me use the at symbol which is what the show uses) which made fun of Harry Potter mpreg. Specifically Snape mpreg. Look up (at symbol) Midnight Sad Etsy Boyfriends and I'm sure you'll find it.

When he comes to me, he looks the same. Like someone has taken a human and stretched and stretched until it's a warped and twisted parody. He paces back and forth, twitching, muttering, shouting. He's more nervous than I've ever seen him and Severus was always a boy to walk on pins and needles. I'd ask if this could wait until morning, but he's not alone. He's brought with him a child that he now clutches to him so tightly I fear he may break the poor thing's bones. I know that biologically speaking he is the child's mother. Gender was magically recorded next to a student's name in the roster. Normally it was either an M or and F. While there was an M next to his name, there was also a special annotation that briefly explained his anatomy. If he wished to be considered male it was hardly an issue; far be it from me to dictate anyone's gender identity. Severus' pressured speech calms down and he halts like a startled animal, looking at me with sunken eyes rimmed with insomnia. I doubt it's the child that keeps him up at night. I know whose side he's joined, whose mark he carries. I just don't know how much blood is on his hands.

The baby makes a soft fussing sound and I watch as, with more gentleness than I would have thought him capable of, he wraps the baby's hand inside his own; holds it like the fragile treasure that it is. I know Severus isn't one to mince words, and it is awfully late.

"What brings you back here, my boy?" He has never been my boy, and he never really will be. Though I have a feeling as to why he's here.

"You need to protect him." There isn't a second's hesitation.

"Who?" I play the fool; as if it wasn't obvious.

"Don't feign ignorance. It doesn't suit you." There's his famous sneer. I find I'm oddly glad to see it. Then the baby makes a sharp sound, and before he can think better of it, he coos softly to him, "hush, Tommy." I know at that moment he had never meant to tell me whose child it was, and part of me wished I didn't know. But what's done is done. Really, Riddle should have known better, but it makes sense. Severus is a shade of Tom, and Tom always was a narcissist. To think that such fractured people managed to bring a life into this world, so untouched by their wrongs. He clutches the baby to him now, even tighter than before. He's well aware of the slip. Now he fears that I'll hurt his child, knowing who the father is. I would never harm a child, but part of me is afraid of this one. They say an apple never falls far from the tree and, in all my years of watching children grow, I've found that in most cases that is true. This child is from two remorseless killers, two brilliant men, two masters of dark arts. There is nothing more dangerous than a sharp intellect and the lust for power. I have to remind myself that the child is without sin. Despite his parents, none have suffered at his hands.

Severus is still looking at me with naked terror. He can see that I am reluctant to help. Perhaps it would be easier if Tom didn't know there was a child. Lord knows what sort of rituals one could perform with the blood of one's own offspring. If he knows, he might stop at nothing to have him. "Is he aware of the boy?" I ask. Severus looks relieved simply that I have spoken.

"Know?" His expression goes from relief to smug and there is that defiant edge to his voice that he has so far been lacking. He's never had any respect for authority other than his own and I wonder if Tom likes that about him. "He _married_ me," Severus brags.  I am openly shocked.  Tom had always been a solitary predator. He never showed interest in any type of romantic relationship, let alone begetting a child. "We married before he was even conceived. He _loves_ me." The words are dripping with spite. Not towards his husband, but towards me. As if he needs to prove that he can indeed be loved. I do not tell him that madmen cannot love, that there is probably an ulterior motive behind Tom's actions. In that moment I see how unkind a place the world has been to Severus Snape. Or is it Riddle now?

"Does he know you're here?" This is a situation unlike any I've ever been in before, and for once I am unsure of the proper course of action.

"He does. But he doesn't know exactly what I'm doing. It took me months, but I've convinced him that he needs a spy here and that I am the only one who can do it. He's not happy about it though. He doesn't like the idea of being separated from us." He shifts the baby in his arms. Slowly he is gaining some measure of confidence.

"What does he think you're doing?"  I ask carefully.

"I'm to tell you that I've been raped by an unknown Death Eater and it's caused me to lose my faith. I conceived a child that I couldn't bear to get rid of and now I need you to help us. Help me repent and do the right thing."

It would have worked if I had not known who the boy's father was. If hadn't known how far gone Severus must be to have married Tom Riddle. I dare not think about what he must have done to gain such favor in the ranks of the jaded, the sadistic, and depraved. Now the idea of Severus here for penance sounds ridiculous. He is not here to repent. I doubt he feels any guilt for his transgressions. But, supposedly, he's willing to throw everything he has away. I find it hard to believe. "Why should I help you?"

That had not been what he expected to hear. His expression is one of affront, but then he laughs. There are many kinds of laughter, and this is one of derision. It's a harsh, bitter cough. A parody of mirth. It is tragedy that one so young has that much anger inside of him, that much hatred. "I should have known," he starts. "You never cared to help me before, so why should you help me now? What did you think was going to happen?" His speech is a near manic, growing in speed and volume as he spits his venom at me. "I had nowhere to go, I had no family! You'd made it abundantly clear that my life was worth fuck all to you! They were the only prospect that I had! I had no name to speak of, no money, no friends! I was worthless! But they said they could make something of me! That I could right all of the injustices done to me!" They promised him power. What do lonely, abused little boys crave more than power? His volume stabilizes into a full yell, his accusations as cutting as a knife. "You might as well have handed me over to him personally! Tommy might as well be your son for the hand you've had in his creation!" He is correct. The wide eyed child clutching at his mother might as well be my own. I've failed another student, and he's not afraid to use it against me. He might not be here to fix his mistakes, but maybe I can fix one of my own. I should know better than anyone that there is such a thing as redemption. But I have to be sure.

"Why do you need me to protect your son?"

"Because he'll ruin him!" he screams back at me. Then his volume drops, as does his mood. "I… Some of the things he does, let's them do, I see now how senseless and cruel it is. He might have believed in a cause once, but now his only wish is power. I cannot let that happen to my son." I nod understandingly. Perhaps he does have regret; perhaps there is redemption for this poor young man after all.

"A mother's love has been known to move mountains."

"I'm not trying to move mountains; I'm just trying to save my son."

"Saving someone from Tom Riddle might as well be the same thing." He gives a rueful smile. "You love him." I am not referring to the child; it is clear that he is loved. I'm referring to the child's father, the man's husband. To the murderer, the monster, and the false prophet Tom Riddle. He still loves the man he is fleeing from. This is not easy for him to do.

"I love Tommy more."

In response to his name, the child looks right at me. "Crusho." Despite the mispronunciation, it is obvious what he is trying to say.

"Do you see what he's teaching him!? That was his first word! He said it before Mum or Dad! Tom was _proud_!" Severus looks as if he's about to sob as he holds the child in front of him. "No Tommy! You mustn't say that! You mustn't ever say that! That is a very bad word!"

I stand from my seat behind the desk and put my hand on Severus' shoulder. "He'll forget that word. In time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, more notes. Writing the notes is the best part of writing fanfiction. First order of business: grow up fandom. I've spent a lot of time with HP nerds and reading fiction in this fandom (it's serious research) and you people need to get the fuck over the whole Dumbles bashing thing. Yes, he was intending to sacrifice Harry. But to save your asses. Riddle isn't a good guy and if he won all of you would be in concentration camps. So I think if it was either Harry dies or you die, you'd claim he was a puppy rapist and shoot him so many times there'd be nothing left of his body. But Dumbles does show some bias and I use him as an unreliable narrator. Don't worry sappy fangirls (Chrissy), Tom loves his family. He's just a hardcore sociopath in all other respects. Second order: at first I was thinking that when Tommy said the baby version of crucio Dumbles was going to feel an uncomfortable jolt. But then I figured that was too Mary Sue and cut it out. And that's all orders of business.


	8. Blood Red Flag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeey everybody! It’s me again! I'm back! Sorry for the two year silence on this but that's how I roll. I figure if Katherine Dunn can take like 10 years to write Geek Love I can take 2 to write this bullshit. I also feel like that sort of thing isn't that weird in fanfiction? Or writing in general. And it doesn't help I'm an extremely slow writer to begin with even when I'm working really hard. Also the last row of my keyboard doesn't work. Fortunately computers these days come with an on screen keyboard I can use to fill in the missing letters until I can get like a used plug in board because fixing things is money. So if anything really weird happens, for example: y nae is addie and soeties I get ery ad at loud noises. See? Keys quit on me. And my quotation mark key and my semicolon key. I'm being pretty diligent about it but I'm not perfect. So go, let the legend come back to life.

Severus knew Tommy killed every animal he could get his hands on and around, ever since he was at least seven.  Thankfully he only did it when they were out of the school for the year.  God knows he didn’t want him trying to strangle something that could actually hurt him.  He first stumbled upon the behavior one afternoon when he needed to go to the garden shed.  He had been drying some belladonna there because he hadn’t wanted his son to get into it.  Tommy was an energetic and curious boy; as such he had a tendency to get into everything, especially if it was dangerous.  Severus always tried to write the behavior off as a child’s natural fascination with anything that wasn’t allowed.  But thankfully he was young still and precautions didn’t have to be overly complicated.  He only kept the shed locked with a normal padlock; he didn’t see much reason to use heavy magic to keep it shut.  So naturally it came as a surprise to find five mutilated squirrels deliberately piled in the corner.  At least there were five tails, which was really the only obvious thing to identify them as squirrels. There could be bits and pieces of other animals in there as well for all he knew.  For all that he cared to know, really.  He didn't for a second question where they could have come from.  He could feel it, like a worm in the back of his mind, wriggling and gnawing at his conscience.  Tommy did this.  Tommy got in the shed somehow and all this stinking, rotting mess was left by him like some macabre arts and crafts project.  He felt the bile rise in his throat.  That strange, bitter tang resting on the back of his pallet.  God _damn_ it, god damn it _why?_

Furiously he stormed back into the house to confront his son.  He found him in the kitchen (where I killed my own father, he thought) sitting at the table flipping through a picture book innocently enough.  Sunshine poured through the window, highlighting not only Tommy but the dust particles floating through the air.  In that second, even to his own eyes, his son seemed so strange, so foreign an object in his house.  In so surreal a moment he just stood there, wondering.  Who is this boy in my house?  Is it his skin that makes up the dust therein?  Maybe he was always here, this warped specter, this strange parody of a happy childhood.  Etched into the liminal space of my home in stark black and white.  Will this creature, this thing from my own womb, haunt me endlessly?

“Tommy!" he yelled.  His son's face tilted towards him, his eyes fixed on Severus, pupils readjusting to the distance, the change of light.  That strange state was broken then, reality set cruelly back in.  "What the hell is that pile in the back of the shed?”  He didn’t need to yell to show how angry he was, but he needed to be angry to hide how afraid he was.  To his knowledge Tommy had never seen anything die, didn’t have a reason to want something dead, should have no reason to even think about killing anything.  He recalled Tom saying something about an early hobby of his that consisted of catching and killing as many rats as he could in the orphanage, keeping track of how many he could get in a day and how creative he could make their deaths.  At the time it made him smile, but looking at his own child unknowingly copying his father scared him.  He could practically _hear_ Tom telling him it was all in good fun, boys will be boys, let him play as he likes.  He would have been so proud that his son had the same idea as him. 

“I was just doing what you do.  You cut things up in the shed too, Mum.”  Tommy had the gall to look innocent, completely unfazed by his outburst, staring almost blankly up at him.  It was eerie to have someone look at you with your own eyes, like a part of you was had somehow slipped away and was acting of its own volition, like he couldn't control his own body and it was now roaming free and mindless, leaving destruction in its path.   Tamping down the odd sensation creeping up his spine, Severus did his best to focus on the situation at hand.

“Yes, but I cut things up for a _reason,_ Tommy!” He yelled desperately at his son.  Please god say he would understand and stop, he thought.  Please god say that this was just a fluke, an accidental slip of genetics, one that they could shove down.  They could just pretend it never happened.  “What I’m doing and what you’re doing are very different things! I’m building stores for the semester!  And it’s just plants!  Why did you kill the squirrels?  How did you even get in there?”

“Plants aren’t _challenging_ ; they're just _there_.  It’s harder to catch animals so it’s more fun,” he explained with a child’s simplicity.  “And I only had to hold the lock and want it to open as hard as I could.  And it opened.”  He supposed he should be proud that his son was displaying such an aptitude for magic at such an early age, but damn it if the boy didn’t know exactly the wrong way to use it.

Severus buried his face in his hands, scrubbed at his eyes.  Okay.  Okay.  He was just bored...  They could deal with that.  He could teach him something. Take him to collect supplies, teach him basic techniques in… _something._ Yes, he nodded his head, that was something he could deal with.  Tommy was standing before him then, head coming just to his knee.  He would be tall when he was grown.  He crouched in front of his son, placing his hands on those tiny, fragile shoulders.  His own hands, long and thin and spider legged, covered them without hindrance.  Sometimes Severus felt so young, but here was youth pristine, personified, staring at him with its round, expectant face.  “You can’t do anything like that ever again.  I _forbid_ it,” he gently chastised.  “It was wrong and it was bad.  Do you understand me?”

“I understand, Mum.  I won’t do it again.”  That tiny face smiled up at him, serene and happy as can be. 

Severus removed his hands from his child and nodded to himself again.  Yes, everything was going to be okay (for now) he decided, tucking a lock of his own hair behind his ear, feeling relief seep into the cracks of his nervousness, smoothing them over, hiding them from view.  Everything was going to be okay. 

In retrospect, he should have had him promise.

It was 8 A.M. and Severus woke to the sound of high, shrill animal shrieks and a steady thud, thud, _thud_.  With his child in the house naturally his first instinct was fight.  All he could think of was that his son was in danger from something.  It didn’t matter what because whatever it was it was would be dead.  Plain and simple.  He grabbed his wand in his tightest grip and burst through his bedroom door, flying down the stairs, chasing after the source of the sound.  Through the parlor and into the kitchen, heart racing, eyes wild, and wand outstretched and ready.

There wasn’t any need.  His fingers lost their grip, his wand fell to the ground like a useless stick with a hollow click clack.

There was his son, the person he had been so desperate to protect, perfectly safe, perfectly content.  However the same could not be said about the live rat he was nailing to the wall.  Tommy had one hand stretched out over the poor thing to hold its writhing from in place, his other holding the hammer at the ready for another swing.  The nail in the rat’s chest was bent and crooked, its stem bent at at odd angles from his yet unskilled hands hitting it at the wrong angle.  Blood ran down the wall in a great streak, pooling on the cheap tile floor. 

The rat was still alive somehow.  Tommy must have missed anything immediately fatal when he impaled it.  Severus had to wonder if his son had done that on purpose to prolong the suffering, to wring as much twisted enjoyment out of it as possible.  The idea that he was developing a taste for sadism so young made a knot form in the back of his throat, made his fingers curl into nervous fists.  He had known more than his fair share of sadists in his time, understood the ruthless brutality with which they operated.  Knew that they were never satisfied with the amount of suffering they caused to others.   How was he supposed to stop his son from becoming that?  _Was_ there any way to stop it?

Pushing down the nausea, fear, and panic Severus strode forward and pulled his son away from his ghastly task.  He forcibly turned the boy to face him, noting the flecks of dark blood speckling his otherwise clean, pale face.  A sick parody of freckles.  “What in the name of god do you think you're doing!” he raved hysterically.

Tommy regarded him as calmly and innocently as he ever did, still casually holding the grisly hammer in his left hand.  “I wanted to see how long it would take to die,” he said with a shrug.

God damn it, god _damn_ it how could this be happening?  Why was this happening _again_?  “Tommy, you _said_ you wouldn’t do anything like this again!  I _forbid_ you from ever doing this again!”

“I know.  I went to get rid of all the traps because I said I’d stop!  But there was the rat in one and it seemed like a waste not to.  This is the last one, I swear!  I _absolutely_ _swear_!” he cried up at him, eyes wide and watering.

Fuck.  Shit fuck.  Severus pulled at his own hair, lightly pressed his thumbs into his eyes, shook his head and tried not to hyperventilate.  How long had been trapping animals?  How had he not noticed?  God damn it, god _fucking_ damn it!  One instance could be a mistake, an outlying incident.  Twice was the beginning of a pattern.  If he didn’t do something now, it was going to spiral out of control.  He had to show that there were consequences to behavior like this.  But how in the hell was he supposed to impart the dire ramification of torture to a seven year old?  He absolutely refused to use corporal punishment.  He knew from experience that violence only begat violence, knew that after the blood dried and the bruises faded the resentment continued to infect, ate its way right into the bone and took hold like a cancer, burning away inside of you.  Severus would give his son no further want to spill blood.  He needed to do everything he could to stop the cycle of violence that had, in a way, created Tommy.

He knelt in front of Tommy and gently pried the hammer out of his hand.  He could feel the warm, sticky blood half dried on the handle.  “This.  Cannot.  Keep.  Happening.”  He said with as much emphasis as possible.  “You are grounded.  For the next two weeks you may only leave the house to accompany me.  And you _have_ to do whatever I say or chore I assign.  Otherwise you'll be stuck in here longer.  Do you understand this time?  Really truly understand?”  He stared his son right in the eye, watching every minute twitch and flutter, hopping for some sign of that this time he really understood.

Tommy broke eye contact and nodded his head in dejection.  Severus was proud of him for not arguing back, for not challenging his authority.  Surely that meant he was getting through to him, that he understood what he was doing was wrong.  This was just an odd phase, a passing nightmare that had to be weathered.  They would be okay.

The next two weeks passed quietly.  In addition to his usual lessons, Severus tried to cultivate in his son an interest in botany.  Despite Tommy’s previous claim that plants were boring, he hoped that the search for specific kinds would interest him.  True, you didn’t have to hunt them down or outwit them, but there was satisfaction to be had in finding the correct one at least.  He would take him into the wood, point out useful but innocuous specimens and how best to harvest them, how to preserve them.  He showed him the basic spells needed to process them (he avoided anything that involved any knives or cutting, no need to tempt the child).  When they were home he would make him scrub floors and windows.  Some days he would clean dishes and make beds.  He did so without argument or complaint, merely a silent acquiescence.

After the fourteen days clicked by without incident, Severus felt that his son had once again earned his freedom. There was, however, the added stipulation that he not wander too far from home.  He had also put a tracking spell on him to alert him if the boy were to wander too far from his set range.  He felt a little bad for penning him in, but it was for the best. 

That afternoon found Severus in the parlor, reading an academic journal on recent potions research when the pounding on the front door began.  It was erratic and insistent, hammering away on the cheap wood.  A cold ball of dread sunk in his stomach then spread out from there, seeping into his blood, traveling up his spine and radiating into the roots of teeth, the tips of his toes.  And he knew.  He had no doubt about the reason for the pounding at the door.  He took a deep breath and steeled himself for whatever terrible action he was going to face.

On the other side of the door stood an old woman, the skin of her face sagging, almost melted looking, as if it was trying to escape the sinew of her weak old bones.  Her iron gray hair permed into tight curls against her scalp.

“Is this boy yours?” she asked.  In her left hand she held Tommy’s tiny, fragile child wrist, wrinkled fingers completely enclosing the delicate joints.  Severus had to wonder what Tom would have done to someone who touched their son without express permission.  He imagined the woman’s blood and organs painting the doorway, hair and intestines all slung about like crepe paper at a cheap party.

“What’s he done?” he asked in reply, leaning forward to prise away his son from her grip.  Her fingers gave way easily enough and Tommy quickly slipped in behind him, peaking out around his side to watch the confrontation.

“Caught him with his hands ‘round my cat’s neck.  Mrs. Davis down the street hasn't seen her cat in days and I think I know why.  You 'ought to keep that little monster inside before he hurts someone."

Abruptly he slammed the door in her face.  Just because his son was a monster didn't mean some old muggle bitch from down the lane could manhandle him.  Tommy was still his _son_ -

Tommy was his son.  Tommy was his son and he didn't have a fucking clue what to do with him.  It wasn't like there was anyone he could go to for advice.  And if he could what would he even say?  How long is the time out for animal torture?

Severus slid to the floor, slowly deflating and crumpling in on himself, wrapped his arms around his knees and pressed his face in them, completely defeated.  Fuck you, Tom, you did this to us.  Our son is a psycho and I can't fucking deal with him.  Nothing I do is going to make him alright.  Severus lifted his head to look at his child.  Tommy had crouched in front of him and was watching intently, almost like this was an interesting story and he was excited to know the ending, like this wasn't real.  Like this whole thing was just a play for his amusement and none of it mattered.

"Tommy-"

"It's alright, Mum; she didn't hurt me.  She was mostly just very loud," he said in his most reassuring voice, lips pulling into a wide smile.

“That's good," he murmured back.   He didn't know what else _to_ say.  Maybe as long as it wasn't other people it wasn't that big of an issue.  Maybe whatever demons his son had could be sated with animals.  He supposed he could deal with that.

Tommy pulled Severus' left arm away from his knee and nestled in its crook.  Warm and soft and small.  He could deal with the occasional animal carcass, he supposed. 

A week from that that day there was another knock on the door.  This time soft and polite, a gentle if insistent query for his attention.  When opened it revealed two children.  Two normal, easy to raise muggle children.  A girl in a jean jumper, hair as fine and golden as corn silk pulled back from her oval face, skin slightly bronzed from the summer sun.  With her stood a boy, obviously a few years younger.  Hair a mousy brown, radiating from a center point on his skull.  His face had a squashed look about it, like a bike tire had run over an over ripe pumpkin.  For a moment he felt a stirring of vanity; Tommy was a much more handsome boy than this one.

"Excuse us, Sir,” the little girl asked, voice small but clear. “Have you seen our puppy?  He went missing three days ago from the front garden."  Her hand stretched out to produce a picture, the edges frayed from over handling and perhaps the worrying fingers of distressed children.  He didn’t bother to really see much beyond that.

"Haven't seen it, sorry," he answered.  Dejectedly, the pair turned away, feet shuffling over the cracked, uneven concrete of his sidewalk.  Severus had a very strong feeling that they would never find it.  He still might though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yaaay serial killer in training kinda shit. Seriously though most killers start with animals and work their way up to people. Bed wetting is also a sign but as gross as this is it's also like a romanticized version. I know there's a third thing but I can't remember and I'm too lazy to look it up. But a lot of research shows a lot of these really bad behavior issues are actually genetic. Like no matter how well you're raising your kid if that’s in the DNA you're fucked. Also while I was digging around for inspiration I found some pretty neat stuff on Deviantart. Check out this person's page it’s filled with fantastic art about this ship. But don't get confused it's not for me or anything. http://riddleice.deviantart.com/
> 
> This is actually a doujinshi I found (a fancy anime style comic that a fan drew and someone was kind enough to scan and translate). It’s James/Severus and while it’s not like 100% in character the stories are so poignant and bittersweet that it makes my insides go squish. And the art is fantastic too. But in a more traditional pretty way. http://old.mangago.com/read-manga/harry_potter_dj_the_world/
> 
> And this is a comic that is just hilarious fun. Trust me. There are a couple of them and they're all amazing.  
> http://lascaux.deviantart.com/art/Snily-Comic-Arson-1-260423857
> 
> So yeah, enjoy that. More to come soon too. I have like 2 more chapters almost ready and one of them is porn! So exciting! Unfortunately it's surprisingly vanilla porn. I am a little disappointing in myself.


	9. Instinctual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey everybody! More of this is happening! Also the style changes pretty drastically because the majority of this was written like 2 years ago. I’ve been reading a lot of Lovecraft lately so it goes from normal Maddie avant-garde to Maddie accidently imitating Lovecraft then back to Maddie phoning it in pretty hard. So I was like fuck it. How much Lovecraft can I Lovecraft into the Lovecraft Lovecraft? Hint: a pretty good amount. Key words include: formless, malevolent, abhorrent, loathsome, and viscous. Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn. Represent.

He could hear it as it moved through the walls like a malignant clot through veins.  But he was the only one to hear its voice.  It would sing the names of its victims and soon he found himself singing along in their shared tongue.  He would press his ear to the damp stone walls and listen for it.  Sometimes it called for his father, hissing out Tom Tom Tom so steady and rhythmic it sounded like a heartbeat.  His father’s name lived like a dark and sacred myth, dwelling on the lips of serpents, in the cracks of ancient walls, in the last breath of the dying.  Through the petty obstacle that was the stone wall he told it who he was, said his name.

“You smell very much like him.  Ambition flows through you as it did your sire.” 

“They stifle me.  My mother fears overmuch for my safety because of my lineage.  But the heretic only seeks to keep my father murdered.  He shall stop at nothing.  He fears I shall be instrumental in his rise.” The language of snakes is languid and smooth, and he enjoys the soft hiss as it slips from his mouth like sand.

“His fears are not unfounded.  What of the other boy?  His voice I can sometimes understand.”

Tommy felt his anger, thick like tar, bitter as bile run through his veins.  He imagines it is much the same as the basilisk’s venom; he can only hope it is as potent.  “The language of the serpent is not his to use.”  Parseltongue was one of the few gifts his father left him, one of the few links he had to the man.  To think his killer was using it nauseated him.  “He is a weapon of the heretic and not to be trusted.  Kill him.”  It’s like the richest of sweets pass his lips when he says the words, gives the command.  “Make him suffer for his treason.”  He recalled what his father had said to him in their brief time together.  His hatred made anything possible, as long as he felt it deeply enough and wielded it properly. 

Tommy presses his palms flat to the stones, digs his fingertips into the mortar.  He listened to the agonized wail of the pipes as the basilisk glides smoothly through them.  Then he hears his name, this time in human English.  “Mother,” he replies.  It falls from his lips as easily as the words kill and destroy do, and this word too is sweet. 

His face is as drawn and gaunt as ever in the dim light of the dungeon and even half cast in shadows there is a crookedness to him that Tommy cannot help but admire.  “Some might find it odd to be clutching at walls in a dead-end corridor.  I know I do.”  Even to his son there is his usual derision, the ubiquitous sarcasm.  But there is the unspoken question, the hidden suspicion, the affection that only his son can see.  

Tommy knows how to lie.  He has learned from only the most practiced teacher.  “I thought I heard something in the wall and followed it this way.”  The best way to lie is to not lie at all.  You merely omit the truth you wish to keep concealed.  His mother’s face is a mask, but he knows he’s being studied, knows he isn’t quite believed.  But the mask melts to worry.

“This place isn’t safe.  Stay in the dorms.”  Tommy knows better than to argue, knows well enough to just lie. It wouldn’t be the first time and he knows it won’t be the last, none the less, he understands. It is a mother’s place to worry for their offspring.  Poor sweet Mother, so misunderstood, so underappreciated.  Beneath the iron façade, he knows how broken he is, how lonely, how anxious.  Father will come, and we will be a proper family.  He will love you like I know he does.  But Tommy must keep such machinations quiet, because Mother is distasteful of bloodshed, because Mother dislikes the idea of him around anything vaguely dangerous.  The basilisk would never hurt him, its loyalty is hereditary, and like so many things, Tommy has inherited it from his father.

* * *

 

The little shit killed it, killed the basilisk. 

Tommy never got on well with others his own age, even on the rare opportunities he was around them as a child.  He found them irritating and loud.  Growing up in such an isolated place in a small and secretive society hadn’t left him much opportunity to find someone he had much in common with.  His mother tried to keep him away from the Death Eaters and their offspring, which was fine because it was bad form to fraternize with the help.  Which was really all they were.  Not that the Malfoy child seemed to understand, the way he was always offering favors and following him around.  Lucius must have told the insufferable sycophant to try and wriggle into his good graces.  Tommy had no use for schoolboys.  He could understand wanting to be in Lucius’ favor (at least until everyone was in their proper place), but his son was nothing but a whining Nancy boy.  Sometimes he wondered if Draco would simply scream for his father if he tried to slit his throat.  All that gushing blood.  Now that was a good thought.  The basilisk would have liked that one.  He found the humor in death.  Poor thing wasn’t laughing now though.  First you kill my father, then my pet.  What’s next, make me watch while you rape my mother?

Tommy sighed and slumped against the wall in defeat.  The basilisk was his only friend.  It wasn’t like this experience had changed his attitude toward those around him.  They would still be the same insufferable morons they had been before, but now he had the idea that maybe he _was_ missing out on something.  That there really were bonds to be forged not just through blood inheritance but also through shared ideals and experience, something to be gained from the company of others.  And yet he could not think of one person he’d wish to share that bond with

These people needed to be cleansed from the world.  Their mindlessness could not be tolerated; the way they refused to try and better themselves at all was disgraceful.  How willing they were to mindlessly follow orders and bow to witless leaders was disgusting.  Tommy heaved himself from the floor with the thought that there was no use brooding about it.  He would have an eternity and an entire planet to find someone or something that didn’t annoy him to near homicidal rages.  

Regardless, he owed his dear friend one thing.  They were just going to let the poor thing rot in the chamber, let it liquefy in there until it oozed into the pipes, contaminated the water.  He knew the basilisk would have enjoyed poisoning people even in death.  Honestly he would have left it like that if he didn’t have to drink from the same source.  So much for a proper legacy, he mused. 

Tommy made his way to the chamber, hissed it open.  How that little bastard managed to find his way to it was beyond him, insolent little prick.  God the stench was foul.  It hit him in a wave after the tunnel opened.  Wand alight, he ventured in.  There was something to be said about the way silence can affect a human.  Tommy had grown up inside a castle that housed over one hundred children for most of the year.  He was used to ambient sound always on his periphery.  But here, there was nothing but the sound of his own footsteps to accompany him on his journey.  The darkness in front of and behind him was almost its own entity; a viscous, sentient malevolence, its hunger as great as its vastness.  Inside the formless beast he began to perceive of a distant hum.  As he moved further down his path, the mysterious sound grew in volume.

Deep within the human subconscious, there lies a natural revulsion to the sound of flies.  When death cannot be seen or smelled, it can indeed be heard.  For the random, chaotic pizzicato of their loathsome wings en mass can only mean that somewhere near by the abhorrent but inevitable enemy Death lurks very close.  

Somehow, despite layers of solid rock between them and the open air, flies had managed to gather on the rotting corpse of the basilisk.  As they feasted on their putrid bounty, they would mate and lay their eggs.  Burrowing into the bloated, liquefying flesh the maggots supped on what was once a most glorious and magnificent beast. 

He didn’t deserve this.  He didn’t deserve to end up like this; a forgotten causality of a war barely started, an unloved relic of better days gone by.  Tommy kept his distance, knowing that this was not how the basilisk would want to be remembered: an oozing, festering mass of flesh and bone and insets.  He planted his feet firmly, wanting to be fully grounded for what was to come.  Delving into his mind, concentrating on his magic, he pulled to the forefront all of his hurts. 

Father’s gone struck down by a mudblood and a baby would have loved to stomp her fucking face to mush have to listen to the heretic’s ravings on goodness and purity want to slit his mouth open so I can shove my fist in it until he suffocates had Father for a brief time but he crumbled to so much dust and ash again wished he could tear those little bastards limb from limb skin that mouthy muggle born alive feel the blood slick his hands gouge out the blood traitor’s eyes with his thumbs shove them back all the way to his useless fucking brain and Harry Potter bane of my existence killer of hope god what he would do to him pull his teeth one by one sew them back up into his flesh watch the sores rot to black make him eat his friends make him eat his own friend vomit wrap his handsaroundhisthroatwatchhiseyesturnredwatchhisbreathstop-

“Immolatus!”  Fire shot from his drawn wand, bright and blue and fueled by his boiling rage and powerful magic, eating swiftly into the soft body and ridged bones of the basilisk.  He watched, entranced, as the flames danced and flickered and writhed across his target, their movements almost erotic.  A corner of his mouth quirked up as pretended he could hear all the flies screaming as they were burned alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this wasn't porn! It's mostly done though I swear! I know porn brings in those sweet reviews too you fickle horny bastards. Side note: anyone wanna suggest wand materials for Tommy? The only thing I've decided is it's made from manchineel wood. You'll get credit and you'll get to help a sister out.


	10. Propylaea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! The sex is here! It's weirdly hard for me to write vanilla porn. Like people just put things in things and that's it? The end? I guess. Also this is the only nice chapter you're going to get. I'm going to go back to being sick and fucked up after this so revel in the sweetness.

He was so tight and hot.  He could feel Severus’ ragged nails digging into the naked flesh of his back but that was okay, he needed the sharp pricks to keep him grounded.  Biology demanded movement, the clench and flutter of smooth, damp walls demanded his seed.  The driving force behind sex was reproduction and he had never felt the need to indulge much until now.  Until this twisted little half blood wondered into his life like Little Red Riding Hood, unaware that he was lost in a wood that wanted to swallow him whole.

Severus was uncomfortably tight around him.  He took it as a sign that the boy (he wasn’t sure if he could still refer to him as such) wasn’t enjoying himself.  As much of a surprise as it would be to others, he rather disliked hurting his sexual partners.  “Do you want me to stop?”  Tom could feel the minutes ticking by and he hadn’t relaxed an inch.  He couldn’t even get himself fully in.  Long white legs wrapped around his hips, trying to reassure him that it was fine.  “No!  No, it’s just that I’ve never done this before.  It hurts a little.”

That was a bit of an understatement actually; it hurt quite a lot.  But something inside him (no pun intended) wanted it.  Some basic instinct yearned for this no matter what.  He needed to have Tom inside of him because his genetic code demanded copulation and now that it was happening there was no going back.  He felt Tom begin to rock forward into him, and then gently pull out a bit to repeat the motion.  This wasn’t anything like he’d thought it would be.  He knew it would hurt but he figured it would feel different too, at least a little good.  He was aware of… Tom’s presence in his body but he’d always thought his insides were more sensitive.  Mostly he felt pressure and friction.  He didn’t have a clitoris like normal women.  What if he couldn’t orgasm?  What if he couldn’t enjoy sex?  He’d heard boys complain about girls who would just lay there.  God he was one of _those_ girls and Tom wouldn’t want anything to do with him and since when did that even matter?  His lover’s voice broke through his panicked inner monologue.

“Doing alright?”  He sounded strained and breathy.  That was a good sign.  At least his insides must _feel_ normal.

“Yeah,” he hissed out, squirming slightly.

“You were tensing up again.  If you keep doing that I’ll probably finish sooner rather than later.”  Severus couldn’t help but smile a little; Tom was eloquent even now.

“Finish when you want,” he replied.  Yes, sooner rather than later would indeed be preferable, he thought to himself.  It still hurt and he didn’t see any reason to prolong it on his account.  He tried to cant his pelvis forward a bit for better access.  Never let it be said that he wasn’t obliging.  He felt Tom’s arm worm under his hips, shift them a bit, pull him down into the trust.  Oh… oooohhh that was different.  He felt Tom slip further in and rub against _something_.  He felt a little silly now that he realized he hadn’t been in all the way before.  And now he was moving against something that rather seemed to enjoy the friction.  It was gradually overriding the pain and feeling pleasurable.

Finally he fully sheathed himself in him.  The heat and tight, soft walls felt excellent around his member.   Tom decided he must have finally gotten the right angle because he felt the passage around him eased to a more comfortable pressure, watched as Severus went from distressed grunts and a pinched face to heavy breathing and a much more lax expression.  If he had known that the discomfort could be relieved simply by sheathing himself fully he would have done it from the start.  Unfortunately, he had the feeling that he would probably finish before his lover, but that was alright.  There were other means to ensure completion.  Digital manipulation was easy enough, and he had been told that he was quite talented with his fingers.  He wondered how talented Severus could be with his own fingers.  He’d love to watch the boy spread himself open and insert those graceful white digits inside, rubbing and thrusting them until he arched in orgasm. 

Instinct must finally be taking over because his partner was now rocking back against his thrusts.  Finally he could lose himself to this, enjoy the hedonistic pleasure of joining with someone.  What once had been merely damp was finally wet, natural lubrication slicking their movements.  He felt long legs wrap around his waist again, this time assured and guiding, helping to pull him in on the down stroke.  Oh yes, Severus was indeed a fast learner and apparently rather intuitive.  He buried his face in the hot column of his neck, tasted the other’s sweat on his lips, felt his throat expand and contract with rapid breath.  He felt searching, groping hands make their way down his back, grip his buttocks.  Tom couldn't help but find that amusing.  His partner certainly wasn’t acting the terrified virgin anymore, thank god.

Fuck he was close.  Before it had been a tentative, delicate joining but now it was swiftly becoming rutting in earnest.  He wished he had the fortitude to make Severus cum like this, but he was sure he could finish him off after if he was already this wound up.  Suddenly he felt a wet mouth as his neck, sharp teeth nipping at his flesh.  Damn him to hell that boy was clever.  Unfortunately it proved to be his undoing as he found release in that wet, clenching heat.  His hips continued on for a moment as he enjoyed the raw, nerve searing pleasure of orgasm.  But slowly, inevitably his thrusting came to a stop.  Tom carefully eased out, his softening erection making a slick pop as he did. 

He looked down at Severus, studied his face.  His hollow cheeks were flushed red, his forehead beaded with sweat.  His black eyes were half lidded and beautifully framed by those spider leg lashes that Tom so loved.  At that moment he felt a strange clench and flutter inside himself, an odd wriggling in his innards that he had never experienced before.  This boy, strange and austere, had crept into his life like some aberrant creature, had nestled into the cracks of his existence and settled into his day to day fabric.  Tom had never felt like this before.  Had never before felt this need to be near someone, had never before cared about the happiness of another human.  It was perhaps strange, but not necessarily in a bad way. 

With new reverence he ran his hand over the curve of his hip, rubbed his thumb over the swell of bone beneath sooth, white skin.  Severus’ eyes flickered downward at him, his thin, pink lips slightly open, imperfect teeth catching the dim light and glinting wetly.  His lank hair spread out behind his head on the pillow like spilled ink.  Tom felt that odd clench in himself again, almost like a dull ache; a painful but strangely pleasant longing.  These feelings were certainly worth further investigation, but there was still something he was looking forward to doing. 

He stretched out on his side next to Severus and grasped his hip, gently urging him on his side as well, back to his chest.  Tom’s fingers trailed through course, black curls, gently brushing past the vestigial organ and slipping inside that lovely wet hole. He could feel his own fresh release inside him, slicking his fingers and trickling out onto his hand.  That was itself almost enough to make him hard again, but he believed pleasure was best had in moderation.  Perhaps in a few days Severus would come to him, wet and begging for another round.  Oh yes, that would be worth waiting for.

Gently he crooked his fingers and began rubbing.  He felt the soft muscles clench around his digits and Severus’ hips tilted forward. Tom placed kisses on his back, at his nape.  “That’s it,” he cooed to him, “just like that.  Let go.”  Carefully he increased his speed, added more pressure.

“Tom!”  Severus cried, pushing into his fingers.  He felt him contract and spasm wildly around him, felt his hips arch as far as his bones would allow, neck bent back with his scalp pushing into his nose.  He kept up the same speed until Severus’ hips fell back against him and his neck relaxed.  Slowly he decreased his speed and pressure until he stopped all together and eased out.  Carelessly he wiped his fingers on the sheets.  He could worry about that and all of these strange new emotions tomorrow. 

Tom draped one arm around Severus hip, the other snaking under his neck to support his head.  Something about it felt nice, felt strangely right.  Like this was always how he was supposed to be sleeping, with this person pressed against him, sharing his breath and body heat.

Tom and Severus slept better that night than they ever had before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a completely unrelated note: who else is unhealthily emotionally invested in Drag Race All Stars 2? My whole house is team Alaska (some of them are recent converts but I've been team Alaska since day one). She did Mae West for Snatch Games! I have been in love with Mae West since I was 12! But Adore! I'm glad she did what's best for her but she'll be missed. If you watch Katya's RuCap (total RuCall) on youtube she talks about it a bit and I agree with her. I also agree with platform jelly sandals in general. Like, culmination of my life's dream would be platform jelly sandals. Annnd shopping season says it's now fall so they'll be on sale! If you love this fic you'll buy some for me. I'm a size 8.5 American (9 if the .5 is unavailable) and I want clear blue. If glitter is an option go for it.


	11. Not a Cloud (Nothern Star)

It’s strange the way they portray cemeteries in media.  They're always secluded, far removed from the local population and the safe familiarity of our own species, from the light and warmth that radiates from such establishments.  They show them as places shrouded in mist and ominous miasmas, always surrounded by deep, malevolent woods.  Severus has yet to encounter any such cemetery.  The ones he has seen have always been in open sunlight, the trees and shrubs cleared away by human traffic and the occasional gardener.  The birds still sing, the insects still buzz, and the sun still shines clear and bright.

It’s late afternoon in May, 1982.  The sun has taken on a magnificent golden hue, the warm rays casting a layer of gilt on everything they touch.  He tilts his face to the vast blue sky, soaking in warmth and light like the fresh shoots of spring plants.  The air smells of sweet blossoms and new life, fresh damp earth and second chances.  He doesn’t believe it for a second. 

Today is just another day in a long string of days to come, in challenges yet unmet, battles not yet fought, betrayals yet undiscovered.  This tentative stretch of peace is new and fragile, but people are easily lulled into complacency.  This cemetery will see more than its fair share of bodies by the end of the century.

As it stands, it’s a nice graveyard.  The markers here are old, many by hundreds of years.  They sit close together, packed in uneven rows stretching over the flat land.  Most of them will stand for longer than it takes the bones beneath them to turn to earth.  The stones are weathered and pitted, many of the designs and epitaphs have eroded away as the days have continuously passed by.  Orange and green lichens grow in random patches on some, spores taking root and establishing colonies.  Life marches on in one way or another, aimless and clinging.  He wishes he had such luxury, to simply be, simply exist. 

He is here only as a courtesy, a sense of obligation.  She used to mean the world to him.  The movements of all the moons and stars in the universe must have been set by her.  At one time he thought her his salvation.  He’s fairly certain he was her doom.  This should bother him more than it does.  But he has more important things to be concerned with these days.  Namely the child he has with him.

Tommy is three now and walking with ease along the neat little path between the markers, his eyes wide and taking in every detail that he sees.  He’s a quiet boy, and for that Severus is thankful.  He has a keen gaze for his age and loves to examine things, loves to turn them about in his hands in that awed way that children have.  Severus is quietly proud of him.  When he watches him he is aware that there is still a fresh, gaping wound in him that misses Tom, wished he was here to see their son.  He thinks it’s very likely that wound will never close. 

He loved him blindly, maddeningly, stupidly.  There was a strange, magnetic quality to Tom that enthralled people, and even with all the beautiful, rich pure bloods groveling for his favor, he had choseen _him_ out of everybody else.  For the first time in his life, Severus had been chosen decisively over all others simply by being himself.  There was a head rush to being loved, to being truly cared for and cherished.  He could feel it in the way his thumb would stroke his cheek, trace the length of his lips.  He would have _died_ for Tom if he had only asked.

There was another emotion he felt though, an odd, almost spiteful one.  Despite what everyone had tried to tell him, had tried to force down his throat day in and day out, someone _loved_ him.  And not just anyone, but Tom fucking Riddle, the god damn Dark Lord, strongest wizard of their time, had pledged his love to him.

Fuck you, Lilly Evans.  If you were smart you would have loved me too.  And now you and your hypocritical ass of a husband are six feet under.

It didn’t matter that his own husband was gone (or a murdering psychopath).  He knew it was petty and stupid, but some wounds are too severe, their infection raging deep within the psyche.  They never fully heal.  He would never forgive James, but he didn’t really have to now.  But he did forgive Lilly.  He understood, too; he wouldn’t have wanted to be his friend either.  Some people are like black holes, so weighed down by their pain that they suck in all the light around them.  Severus knew he was one of those people.  He was past his own event horizon, couldn’t pull himself from the darkness.  And that was why he lost Lilly.  She must have felt herself being sucked down into a place so hostile that not even her light would be able to survive.  She left at the first opportunity in search of what she must have thought was his opposite.  Someone who was so bursting with light and joy it made him sick.  In the end, he couldn’t blame her.  James would be able to give her everything she wanted.  Would give her a family.  He himself couldn’t have done that.  Not that she had known.  Some secrets are meant to be kept.  Kept, locked away, and thrown into the deepest of unreachable pits.  But, oddly, he had found himself… _glad_ to be physically compatible with Tom.  It had made him squirm and ache in appealing places that had once seemed loathsome. 

When he saw Tom he was the brightest light of all.  But what he didn’t realize until later was that the light did not belong to Tom.  That blinding glow was stolen by feeding off of those around him, sucking them down into his own darkness.  Severus didn’t know that Tom was the biggest black hole.  The super massive one that lurked in the center of his universe and was threatening to eat him alive. 

Yes, there had indeed been something dark and hypnotic about Tom, but there had been something bright and enchanting about Lilly.  She was like a warm home in the depths of winter, beckoning to lost souls who would surely perish without her shelter.  So he had clung to her desperately, like wild vines sapping nutrients from a strong and healthy tree.  Perhaps he’d taken all she had, drained her dry and begged for more.  The only thing he could seem to do was drag people down.  Especially the people he loved.  God help his son.  His beautiful, perfect, innocent son.  The son he’d scarified everything for.

Gently he placed his hand on the back of Tommy’s head, feeling his downy hair.  He could easily fit the circumference of his skull within a single hand.  How could something be so small, so fragile?  How easy it would be to worry over him ever second.  How did his stumbles not break his tiny bones into a million little shards?  How could Severus dare touch him without fear of breaking him?  How could his fingers caress his tender head without crushing it?  And yet somehow, day in and day out, he did.  His son was growing, becoming stronger every day.

It was strange, in a way, seeing his son in this field of the dead.  Tommy was so warm and alive it nearly hurt to look at him, brought an ache to his heart and a wan smile to his face.  Severus clenched his hands into fists, nearly damaging the bunch of flowers he held.  Calla lily.  They stand for love and purity, but also death; they're perfect for his purpose.  He felt a tug on his robe and looked down to see Tommy, his arm outstretched, pointing at the bouquet he held.  Severus knelt down to hand him a lily and smiled as his son inelegantly grasped the thin stem.

“Lily,” said.

“Lee,” was the slightly slurred simplified version that Tommy managed.

“Lil. Ee,” Severus annunciated, making sure his child could see the way his tongue hit the back of his teeth to for the second L sound.

“Lil. Ee,” he parroted back to him.

“Good.  That’s very good,” he said honestly with a smile.  He gently pressed his forehead to Tommy’s, making him giggle.  This is what was more important than Tom, more important than power, or vengeance, or redemption.  Things as simple as these were the greatest reminder of what was really important, were the things that brought him hope and joy.  He would do anything to protect his son.

Severus stood and took Tommy’s tiny hand in his, held it like the fragile treasure that it was, and lead him further into the cemetery.  They came to a stop in front of Lily’s grave.   The plot of land before her stone was grassy.  The rectangle of bare soil had sprouted, taken on new life.  The deep wound in the earth had healed, leaving no visible evidence of the tragedy it concealed.  Truly an enviable skill, to heal so quickly and so thoroughly, to be so resilient after such upheaval.  Gently he placed the bouquet before the stone, leaving tribute to the first person he had loved, maybe the first person to ever love him.

She was down there now, entombed beneath the earth like a seed cursed to never grow.  He hoped it was peaceful where she was, that she was far away from all of the strife and indecision.  As he contemplated, an odd smell began to creep on his periphery.  Sweet grass and bitter smoke.  Looking around to find the source, he saw his son, holding the lily he’d been given, watching intently as fire ate away at the delicate blossom.

“Fire!” Tommy exclaimed, entranced by the flames slowly working their way down the stem like a fuse, waiting to burn Tommy’s hand.  Panicked, Severus slapped the burning flower of his son’s grip, quickly checking him for burns.

“Did you do that?  Did you start it on fire?” he asked, uncurling tiny hands to check for damage.

“Fire!” Tommy yelled again, pointing to Lily’s grave.  Turning to survey the damage, Severus saw the burning lily had fallen perfectly, and in a one in a million odds, landed in the bouquet of flowers he had just laid before the grave, igniting the entire bunch.  Stunned, Severus watched the white petals curl up and turn to ash as the flames devoured them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Northern Star in the title is for the song Northern Star by Hole. I listened to it every time I needed to get in the mood to write for this fic. It weirdly sums up everything I was going for with this. You should give it a listen. But the part that goes, “I knew I’d cherish all my misery alone.” I was like no. Those words are for me, fanfic I’m writing. You can have the rest, especially the part that says, “No loneliness, no misery is worth you.” But yeah, it’s a really good song and you should listen. It’s on youtube.


	12. Deraliction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably still need to clean this one up a bit but I figured why not and decided to post it.

The room around them is vast and dark, giving the illusion that they float in nothingness.  It is as if they are outside of existence, trapped in time in this strange pocket of reality.  It is just them, the wedding party, and the altar.  It is simple granite, five feet long and two feet wide.  They’ve draped it with simple white linen.  Timeless, respectful.  In the center sits a silver chalice, gleaming dull in the low light.  It’s flanked by a candle on each side.  They sit on silver holders.  And in front of the chalice, laid horizontal, is an athame.  Its handle is obsidian, polished fine and smooth, but the blade, like the rest of the implements, is silver; elegantly etched with delicately curving filigree.  He feels his eyes drawn to its wicked edge, its beauty deceptive to how deadly it could be.  His gaze flicks back to Tom then, and he cannot help but find him similar.

They kneel before this simple spread to offer themselves in unity, with love and devotion on pain of death.  Tom was always so sure of what he wanted.  He was decisive and determined, never wavering from his perceived path.  So when he had asked Severus to marry him, took Severus’ hand in his own and asked for far more than simple allegiance, he knew that it meant that Tom was fully devoted to him and would never waiver.  So Severus said yes.  With all of his stunted and needy heart, he said yes, so sure that there could be no greater calling, that there was nothing he wasn’t prepared to lose (which had been everything, for Tom).

 He let Tom chose the ceremony.  Something dramatic, yet understated.  Something with gravity.  Something old.

So here they knelt, the two candles flickering dimly, making the polished silver twinkle faintly in the low light.  Bracketing them were other Death Eaters, but only the most loyal.  For now, this must be kept secret.

Tom begins the ceremony, his stern and commanding voice filling the cavernous room.  “Caríssimi: Deponéntes ígitur omnem malítiam, et omnem dolum, et simulatiónes, et invídias, et omnes detractiónes, sicut modo géniti infántes, rationábile, sine dolo lac concupíscite ut in eo crescátis in salute*1.” 

Severus has memorized the ceremony, he knows all the words, knows all the actions and what is required of him.  “Aufer a nobis, quaesumus, Dómine, iniquitátes nostras: ut ad Sancta sanctórum puris mereámur méntibus introíre,*2 ” he responds solemnly. 

Tom takes the athame in one hand and holds the other above the chalice.  Severus know that the dagger has a light bleeding spell on it; any wound it inflicts will bleed a just a bit more than it should.  Typically such a spell would be cast on a weapon to take into battle as to insure maximum damage.  But here it is used to bind the living.  He watches as without hesitation, Tom slices open his palm above the chalice.  “Hic est enim calix sanguinis mei, noviet aeterni testament,” he chants.  “Mysterium fidei: qui pro vobis et pro multis effundetur in remissionem peccatorum *3.”  As blood runs out of the wound it clings to the edge of his hand, but finally surface tension gives way and it trickles freely into the vessel.  In the dim light it appears almost black, faintly shimmering as it collects.

He hands Severus the athame next, and Severus repeats the action, draws the exquisite blade over his own flesh, feels the sharp sting as his skin parts.  The cut is deep and hot and throbs in time with his racing heart as his blood mixes with Tom’s in the chalice.

“Hic est enim calix sanguinis mei, noviet aeterni testamenti: mysterium fidei: qui pro vobis et pro multis effundetur in remissionem peccatorum,*3” he says as well.

Tom takes the vessel of their mingled blood, his strong and steady hands wrapping around it, fingers lacing together in front.   With a reverence rarely shown, he holds it to Severus’ lips.  He drinks deeply as Tom recites, “Diffúsa est grátia in lábiis tuis: proptérea benedíxit te Deus in ætérnum.  Propter veritátem et mansuetúdinem et iustítiam: et dedúcet te mirabíliter déxtera tua *4.”  The blood is thicker than he expected and tastes of iron and salt.  It’s hot and hard to swallow, but he manages.  It’s made even more awkward as he has no control over the chalice.  After two good swallows he feels Tom gently start to pull it away from his lips and he cannot help but feel a tad relieved. Still though he can feel the blood coating his tongue, his teeth, his throat.  The smell rises into his sinuses and it almost makes him gag.  He’s dealt with plenty of the stuff before.  Really it shouldn’t bother him so much.  He allows himself one more thick swallow, hoping his own saliva will help wash some of it down.

 Tom hands Severus the chalice then.  His own spider’s leg fingers lacing around the silver that’s been warmed by fresh blood and his lover’s hands.  Gently he puts it to Tom’s lips, slowly and carefully tilts it as he too says, “Diffúsa est grátia in lábiis tuis: proptérea benedíxit te Deus in ætérnum.  Propter veritátem et mansuetúdinem et iustítiam: et dedúcet te mirabíliter déxtera tua *4.”  Without hesitation Tom drinks deeply from the chalice.  As Severus gently tilts it forward, a small rivulet of blood trickles from the corner of his mouth, sliding slowly down his chin then neck, finally being absorbed by the black fabric of his robes.

He removes the cup from his lips and Tom grins at him.  He can see their shared blood coating his teeth.  They're chips of ruby twinkling grimly in the dim light and for a moment Severus freezes as the candles flicker and cast austere, dancing shows on Tom’s face.

Tom leans forward to kiss him, mouth open and thick with blood.  There isn’t a difference in taste as his mouth is still coated too.  Perhaps this is just a bit overwhelming, he thinks as he feels Tom’s hand wind in his hair.  But he loves him.  And right now that’s all that matters.  They pull away from each other, breathless, and clutch hands.

“Mors et vita duéllo conflixére mirándo *5,” they say together.

Without so much as a whisper the candles go out and they are plunged into darkness.  The cut on his palm throbs hotly against the cut on Tom’s palm.  Blood for blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where have you been, you may ask. Well at first I got emotionally steamrolled but Trigun. I fucking forgot how good it was. Seriously, go watch it. So I was reading like, 10 year old fanfics for a while. Then I was kind drifting aimlessly. Then I needed something take my mind off the apocalypse or better known as the 2016 American election. Stay safe everybody.
> 
> That being said, I ripped all the Latin from Catholic mass. I have an older Mom who was raised Catholic (even though we aren’t religious at all) and she fondly remembers the original Latin masses. So I thought it would be a cute tribute kinda I guess. Idk. I just clicked around until I found some stuff I thought would work well with what I was doing and I don’t really remember what the context is. Another fun fact is I listened to the in game soundtrack to Silent Hill 2 while writing this in pitch black (my lamp broke). Weird shit but helped me kinda keep the mood. I have all the in game music from the first three games. I have like 5 gigs of horror noises with fun names like As the Sun Drowns or The Tunnel Beckons. Or Pizza & Bowling and UFO Ending. Also the official Silent Hill 3 soundtrack that came with the disk when it was first released. To me it always sounded like a forced wedding mix from hell anyway. I was like 13 and had whole fanfiction wedding scenarios planed out around it.
> 
> 1\. Dearly beloved: Wherefore laying away all malice, and all guile, and dissimulations, and envies, and all detractions, as newborn babes, desire the rational milk without guile, that thereby you may grow unto salvation.
> 
> 2\. Take away from us our iniquities, we beseech Thee, O Lord; that with pure minds we may be made worthy to enter into the Holy of Holies.
> 
> 3\. For this is the chalice of my blood of the new and eternal testament: the mystery of faith: which shall be poured out for you and for many unto the remission of sins.
> 
> 4\. Grace is poured abroad in thy lips; therefore hath God blessed thee forever. Because of truth and meekness, and justice; and thy right hand shall conduct thee wonderfully.
> 
> 5\. Death and life contended in that conflict stupendous.


End file.
